It’s just a small lake in as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get in the Midwest. Eighteen acres. Fishing only. No jet skis. No ski boats. No speed boats.
 
I’m rowing against a gentle summer breeze, still cooled by the early morning air rising from this glacial pothole. I slip the oars soundlessly into the water. I’m not racing against anything. No need for speed as I work my way against the breeze to position the boat for a stealthy drift back.
 
Nature is not silent if you take time to listen. A noisy Kingfisher swoops and snares a minnow. Somewhere in the variegated green canopy of maples, pines, oaks and cedars, the Baltimore Orioles, Eastern Phoebes and American Crows call to each other. The soft, lingering lament of a Mourning Dove is heard. A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker whacks its bill on a metal chimney cap; its amplified drumming proclaims this is his territory. Two Red-winged Blackbirds, acrobats in flight, play tag. Two Damselflies flit a few inches above the lily pads coupled in mating and a snapping turtle, the size of the lid on an oil barrel, pokes its head out of the water, a few feet from my drifting boat.

I’ve seen Bald Eagles, Common Loons, and Osprey fish this lake, but today, I’m the lone fisher.
 
The sun, still low in the east, creates sparkles on the dark blue lake surface and when the six-pound-test line descends from my cast to the edge of the lily pads, the beads of water hanging from it reflect the light like dew drops on a back-lit spider web.
 
Across the lake, a young girl sits on a dock in lotus position, meditating, soaking up the sun. We are both here for the slow pace we seldom experience in the city. We will not say anything to each other. We will not wave to each other. It is not that we are not friendly, it is that she is engaged in one kind of meditation, I in another.  While I prowl the shady side of the lake for large-mouth bass, I also empty my mind of the concerns of the job and the stress of life in a faster lane.
 
 I let the purple and chartreuse Yamamoto bounce along the bottom propelled only by the drift. It’s a lazy man’s way to fish and I feel lazy today.
 
The ripples in the water are mesmerizing. It is easy to fall into a dream-like state in which I am both here and nowhere, both in the moment and in a moment in which time stands still. There is no future, nor past. No to-do list, no Blackberry, no appointments, no deadlines. Nor, is there regret for opportunities squandered, or for dissecting past failures. There is just the music of nature and the sensitive connection that runs from my hands through the rod tip and the monofilament to the lure bouncing along the lake bed. Bass hit soft this time of year. Concentration is critical.
 
As I drift along the outskirts of the lily pads, my mind wanders. Somewhere, 30 feet below, Old Mick lies in ambush. It is the legend of the lake--a pike so big, so long and so strong it broke the leader open on a line wrapped around a baseball bat and wedged in the railing of a pontoon boat by a fisherman who needed a break from the fight. Old Mick escaped. It’s still out there, but today I let that legend lie. Too much work.
 
I feel lazy this morning and this is a good place to decompress. Oscoda County is the least populated county in Michigan’s Lower Peninsula, Less than 9,500 people live here. The Huron National Forest, which spans 400,000 acres in the northern half of the Lower Peninsula, covers 90 percent of the county. This lake is just one of the more than 100 small lakes in the county.
 
Our cabin is so remote there is no television, no Wi-Fi and no cell phone reception unless you walk a quarter mile down the trail to a high spot. There is limited radio reception, one oldies station, one country. Both give weather reports, but for the whole Sunrise Side of the state, so bad weather, or for that matter, good weather can sneak up on us.
 
This lake is surrounded by hills. The sun rises late and sets early and there’s no way to tell what lies beyond this short horizon. So, you make the most of the day, which this morning means drifting with the summer breeze, listening to nature and connected to a thin line.

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